


Stars in Ascension

by Silent_So_Long



Series: trope_bingo round four [5]
Category: Boardwalk Empire, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Gen, Gun Violence, Trope Bingo Round 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silent_So_Long/pseuds/Silent_So_Long
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard treats Jim’s bullet wound </p>
<p>(contains potential triggering depictions of gunshot wounds and related makeshift surgery)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars in Ascension

**Author's Note:**

> This fic serves as a fill for my “fusion” square on my trope_bingo card and was quite possibly the most ambitious thing I’ve ever attempted. I blame a new addiction to Boardwalk Empire for setting this in motion. I also had to do a quick spot of research, via Google, in regards to bullet wounds and their healing, as, luckily, I have no experience or prior knowledge of these, other than that which I’ve seen on countless films, and Boardwalk Empire itself. Whilst it admittedly still may be a little fudged as I’m not in any way medically trained, it’s still more accurate than it could have been. (and I, in no way, endorse avoiding the hospital in cases similar to that detailed here. Those guys are professionals!)

Leonard McCoy hurried through the streets of Chicago, head bowed low beneath the weight of chill air that bore down upon him. His shoulders were hunched, coat pulled and wrapped tightly around his body, yet even that was not quite adequate enough to keep him warm. He muttered and mumbled his way through the crowds, ignoring the people that he passed; instead, his thoughts and attention was focussed inward, where it was at least a shade warmer, fuelled by an ever constantly simmering anger stoked by the coals of his own dire straits. 

Chicago seemed a world apart from Georgia, cold and dismal where Atlanta was warm and balmy; if it had not been for the divorce with Jocelyn taking all that he had and then some back in his home state, then he would not have shored up in the Windy City, juggling his medical degree at the Chicago Medical school whilst working for Johnny Torrio at the Four Deuces on Wabash Avenue. 

Whilst the job paid well enough to make ends meet for Leonard, he disapproved of the place itself; the Four Deuces was a notorious hang-out for Chicago’s criminal element, and served as a combination brothel, bar and gambling den for all and sundry. Leonard hoped that once his studies were over, and paid for, he’d be able to escape the club and the lifestyle, relatively unscathed and in possession of every single body part he still currently owned. 

He finally straggled onto Wabash Avenue itself, made his way down the snow and wind driven length of it before he finally reached into the doorway of the Four Deuces. He shivered his way inside, and pulled off his coat before he felt the first flick of a hand against his ear.

“Where the hell you been, heh?” came the familiar voice of Al Capone at his elbow. 

Al, like Leonard himself, was a doorman at the Four Deuces, yet Johnny Torrio had, surprisingly to Leonard, taken Al under his wing, serving as mentor for Al. Despite the fact that Leonard tried to remain as much of a ghost on the criminal outskirts as he could, he still was up to his elbows in the mire more than he really wanted. Ever since Johnny Torrio had found out that Leonard planned to become a doctor, Johnny had been using Leonard’s still burgeoning expertise to patch up all manner of ills and complaints on his associates and his prostitutes alike. Whilst Leonard grumbled his way through every consultation and treatment, an extra cash bonus slipped his way soon silenced even the loudest groan. Much as he hated bribes, Leonard needed the money more than he could ever tell anyone and besides, the increasing need to keep an eye upon a certain James T Kirk sweetened the deal. 

Jim had taken over as doorman and sometime driver of Johnny Torrio after Jimmy Darmody had been reported missing, presumed dead, some time back. Jim had been a fresh faced drifter, blown in seemingly with the wind and snow one late evening; the kid had soon embroiled himself in a bar fight over a supposed slight over a woman. Leonard had, naturally, been the one to patch Jim up afterwards, swabbing bloody nostrils and tending to cut skin on Jim's face whilst listening to a stream of seemingly inane babble that Leonard had secretly enjoyed despite his terse comments to the contrary. For some reason, Leonard, on that first meeting with Jim. had decided he’d liked him, despite Jim’s seemingly natural over-exuberance; Johnny Torrio, it seemed, had also thought the same, for he’d hired Jim on the spot. Since then, Jim and Leonard had become inseparable pals. Even Al himself had taken a shine to Jim, and Leonard by proxy; Leonard had borne the brunt of Jim and Al’s combined pranks on more than one occasion, yet he couldn't find it within himself to complain too loudly. 

Secretly, beneath it all, Jim and Al, once they got going together, had wormed their way beneath his skin until he could think of nothing more than saying they both were his closest friends. Even Torrio himself wasn’t so bad once one got to know him, dry and laconic where Al and Jim were brash and funny, more given over to quiet orders than the energy that constantly crackled about Jim and Al both. 

Al brought Leonard’s attentions back to the present again with another hard flick to the air and a typical rolling chuckle that issued forth from behind a wide grin. Leonard sighed and raised one eyebrow at the smaller man. 

“What’s up, now, Al?” Leonard asked, dread suddenly icing its way through his gut from the sudden, serious look that had settled upon Al’s scarred face. 

Those scars had been given to Al before Leonard had even started working at the club and he never had heard the true tale of how the smaller man had come by them. The story itself seemed to change every time upon the telling of it, so that Leonard never could sift one lie, one joke, one shrug from the other. 

“Johnny wants you in back,” Al said, as he gestured over one shoulder. “In his office. Got a matter of utmost urgency for you.”

“That so?” Leonard asked, as he shrugged out of his coat and allowed Al to take it from his suddenly deadened hinds. “Any ideas what the emergency is?” 

“Jim is the emergency,” Al said, in the tone of voice that suggested that Jim often was behind a lot of emergencies in the Four Deuces.

Whilst that was true in most cases, Leonard still felt a cold chill settle deep within his gut at that, that finally, finally, Jim had pissed off the wrong person and gotten himself on the wrong end of a Thompson machine gun. 

“Took a bullet for Johnny,” Al said, finally confirming the worst of Leonard’s fears.

Leonard cursed and made his way post haste in to the back, where he found Jim sprawled and bleeding over Johnny Torrio’s desk. Torrio himself looked less than pleased with the situation, yet it was hard to tell in Leonard’s opinion. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d actually seen Torrio actively pleased about anything, let alone genuinely smiling. Leonard knew that Jim and Al caused Torrio a lot of grief between them; the situation was further compounded by the amount of Jim’s blood that was currently pooling across Torrio’s desk. 

“About time you got here, you damn sawbones,” Torrio said, once he spotted Leonard coming through the doorway. “Close the door behind ya, will ya? Don’t wanna scare the patrons. And do something about plugging this leak.” 

He pointed towards Jim's bullet wound and Leonard suddenly felt as though he was being held personally responsible for it. Once again, he fell back upon his old explanations of not being a doctor yet, weary though they were; he didn’t want to make promises that he ultimately might not be able to keep. He knew how fond Torrio was of Jim; they all were. For all his bluff and bluster and cock-sure attitude, Jim really was a nice kid and Leonard felt inexplicably responsible for him. Perhaps it was because, like Al and Torrio before him, he was that much older than Jim, and so, felt the need to act like the father Jim had never really known. 

“I’m still only a student, Johnny,” he said. “I’m not yet a qualified doctor.”

“I know that. I heard you say that before,” Torrio said, a little impatiently. “But you’re the best damn medical student in the whole city of Chicago. I swear your hands are magic. I’m more worried about my damn table than whether you save Jim or not.”

Leonard knew that that wasn’t strictly true; whilst blood stains were difficult to get out of most things, Johnny genuinely was worried about Jim. It was evident in the set of his eyes and the tautness in his jaw, the way that he exhaled sharply after every equally sharp inhalation. Johnny, though he might not want to admit it, was kind beneath his supposed veneer of violence. 

Leonard sighed and knew that he had no choice, his feelings for Jim notwithstanding. Jim was his closest friend, after all, not counting Al, and perhaps Johnny. He moved into action, scurrying for the medical bag in his room, returning within minutes to set to work upon Jim. He dug and he scraped carefully at Jim‘s abdomen, using every careful skill he had to pry the bullet loose from where it had lodged within Jim’s body. He was glad for the fact that it hadn’t struck any major organs; whilst the wound was as bad as it was deep, there would be nothing left but a scar and a raft of stories that would win Jim dinner with the patrons of the Four Deuces and with ladies alike. Leonard concentrated on that, instead of the other, unthinkable outcome of Jim dying; Jim couldn’t die, not whilst Leonard had his hands upon him, every fibre of his concentration wrapped around healing the man upon the desk in front of him. 

He was glad for the fact that Johnny himself had left the room, citing an unlikely squeamishness for watching; Leonard didn’t believe him. He suspected that it was more for the fact that Torrio would hold Leonard personally responsible if Jim died, because he would have been the only man other Jim himself in the room. 

Leonard felt a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, more caused by stress than by heat. Whilst the room was warm, it wasn’t as hot as it could get in Atlanta in high summer. The heating was barely coping with the winter storms outside and Leonard was all too aware of the wind that whistled and whipped against the nearby window. 

Several times, Jim stirred beneath Leonard’s only slightly shaking scalpel and forceps; every time, Leonard plied him with the best bootlegged whiskey Johnny could currently muster up. He plied him with enough that he was worried he might die from alcohol poisoning, bullet be damned, yet he knew that Jim would, somehow, pull through. Jim didn’t believe in no win scenarios, even when he was mostly, largely, unconscious. Leonard had never known such a natural born fighter as Jim Kirk. 

“If you pull through this, kid, then I'll personally buy you dinner for a goddamned year,” Leonard growled. 

Jim, of course, didn’t answer. Finally, agonizingly slowly, Leonard finally located the bullet, and prised it free from the soft flesh of Jim‘s abdomen, wincing at the sudden scream of pain that was ripped from Jim’s throat at that; it seemed that not even the bootleg whiskey could take the edge off that pain. He could barely aware of a disturbance outside the office as though some of the patrons of the club had heard the noise and were curious. He was dimly aware of Al’s voice next assuring everyone that it was nothing but the central heating complaining; Leonard had never heard such horse-shit in his life. That was Al all over; he was one of the world’s greatest bullshitters and was just charming enough to be able to pull it off without adverse effect. In that he resembled a lesser Jim Kirk in a way. 

Leonard made painstaking work of sewing the wounds together before he sterilized the stitches with more dashes of the whiskey. Even though he thought it a waste of good liquor, he still knew that it was better to use it than risk getting the wound infected. The swill of the alcohol against the wound, closed though it was, roused Jim into another scream; Leonard winced in sympathy for him and waited until his friend had settled again, before he wiped at the wound with a clean cloth.

Satisfied that he’d done all that he could, he poured himself a snifter of the whiskey and downed it in one, long, languorous gulp, throat bobbing with the movement. He had to admit that it was good stuff, better than the watered down swill that most of the bootleggers offered to the general public by way of a good time; he thought that the drink was a well deserved one, if he did say so himself. He'd done all that he could for Jim, and now, Leonard knew, Jim’s recovery was in the hands of whatever god Jim believed in, and, of course, Jim himself. If he knew Jim as well as he thought he did, the insufferable man would be up and about on his feet in a couple of months or less, with no regards to his own healing, as if nothing at all had happened to him.

“To your health, Jim,” Leonard said, as he tipped a second shot of whiskey in the now silent Jim’s direction.

Jim, of course, didn’t respond. Instead, the other man’s eyes remained blissfully closed, mouth lax, yet at least his breathing was steady and now unencumbered by pain. That at least came as some kind of blessing filled comfort for Leonard. He was considering a third refill of his glass when Al peeked in, round face swathed in concern which was swallowed up in a habitual scowl when the other man realized that Leonard had noted his concern.

“The kid gonna be alright, heh?” Al asked, as he tipped his head towards Jim.

“If Jim himself has any say in the matter, then yeah, I think he’ll be just peachy in no time,” Leonard grumbled. “I’ve done all I can, at any rate. He needs rest, preferably in a proper bed and not on some deadbeat gangster’s desk.”

“I heard that,” Torrio retorted from over Al’s shoulder.

Leonard hadn't even realized that Johnny Torrio was even there and swallowed his sudden grunt of surprise. Al’s grin, when it came, was as sunny as it usually was, filled with an impish glee that indicated he was privy to some joke that everyone else wasn’t. Leonard usually knew that that grin meant trouble, usually for some poor schmuck on the end of Al’s japes or anger. Sometimes, with Al, it was hard to tell the difference. 

“Help me move him, will ya, kid?” Leonard muttered, more to Al than to Johnny. 

Al’s head dipped in a slight nod, before the other men entered the room fully, rolling his sleeves up to reveal bare forearms. The sudden movements were unsettling, somehow, to Leonard, as though Al was preparing for surgery or a fight; Leonard hoped that it was neither, that Al was genuinely leery of getting blood on his clothes. Torrio peeked in, curiosity stamped across his features, yet he stepped away to clear curious onlookers when Al and Leonard staggered awkwardly through the door, Jim a dragging unconscious weight supported between them. 

Whilst the stares they received were curious, Leonard was glad that for the most part no one passed comment or tried to stop them; most of the clientele in the bar had seen far worse debacles just crossing the street on a Sunday. He didn’t relax properly, despite this, until Al had helped him to settle Jim in his own bed on the top floor of the building, tucked away from prying eyes. Leonard was glad that his own room butted onto Jim’s own, yet he knew that he wouldn’t be using it or a few days. Instead, he would be staying in Jim's room, large body settled in the chair by the fire while he slept. That way he would be on hand if Jim needed him; he would he able to respond all the quicker if he was actually in the room with the invalid.

A few hours later and the club had closed for the night; Leonard had had to leave Jim alone in the interim whilst he kept the rowdiest of the crowds from disturbing the bar; Torrio’s reasoning was that Leonard had to work to pay for all the whiskey he’d used in Jim’s makeshift surgery. Leonard had snorted in disgust at that yet did his job anyway; that way he knew that he wouldn’t have time to worry about Jim. His mind and his hands would be too busy, and Al, as usual, was up to his usual trickery. 

Despite his worry that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for worrying over Jim, Leonard slept like the proverbial log, stirring only on a few occasions to tend to the comfort of his newest patient. For the most part, however, Jim was quiet, pain overwhelming him into blissful unconsciousness until morning light dawned in a flurry of snowflakes. 

Leonard went to work, mind still trapped in Jim’s bedroom, yet the day’s work eased some of his worry. Life still had to go on, Leonard knew, and he was, in effect, doing the work of two men now that Jim was temporarily out of action. 

At night, Jim sometimes raved, nonsense spewing forth from his unresisting mouth whilst he slept. During daylight hours, when he was awake, he was more coherent, yet mulish and not above pouting to get Leonard to do whatever he wanted; that usually involved asking him for the best food that Torrio offered, or to fetch orders of pasta and pizza from the Italian restaurant down the street. Leonard sighed and did as he was asked without question or too many complaints, unable to withstand the force of Jim’s best pleading looks. He never missed the wicked grin that he received each time, as though he’d fallen into one of Jim’s traps; he was fully aware what Jim was doing so any supposed traps were all in Jim‘s head. Leonard knew that Jim merely had him wrapped around his little finger as always. 

By Christmas, Jim was back on his feet again, although hobbling still on a stick liberally stolen from the hospital that Leonard interned at. Leonard always insisted that the stick was borrowed, yet Jim still insisted that it was stolen. Despite the fact that Leonard knew that Jim still had to get his bed rest, limited activity would actually help the healing process. Jim complained incessantly about his limited mobility and Leonard’s heavy watchful eye upon him, yet secretly, Leonard suspected that Jim was just enjoying the attention that was lavished upon him.

“I swear you get a kick out of looking after me,” Jim commented one day after the new year of 1931 dawned in a flurry of wind and snowflakes.

“I’m only doing this because I’m your doctor, kid,” Leonard grumbled, whilst trying to hide a smile at the bright grin that decorated Jim’s face. 

“You haven’t passed any of your exams yet,” Jim reminded him, even as Leonard examined the wound for infections. “You’re just some unlicensed sawbones poking around at my gut.” 

“Maybe so, but at least you’re a real life guinea pig,” Leonard said, as he lifted one eyebrow at Jim. “The amount of times you get into trouble provides me with enough study cases to ace every single one of my exams. And no, Jim, that’s not something to be proud of.” 

“Well, Bones, at least I’m helping you study,” Jim said, with an easy shrug that made him wince when his damaged tissues stretched in all the wrong directions. 

“In the worst possible way,” Leonard mumbled, as he pulled the sheets back over Jim’s body. “I suppose you want your dinner now?”

“Yep,” Jim said, with a nod. 

“The usual?” Leonard asked, with a sigh, even as he pulled his coat from the back of a chair nearby.

“Yep,” Jim said, again, as he snuggled beneath the covers with a contented little sigh. “I like you being my doctor, Bones.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, kid, or I’ll send Al in here,” Leonard said, gruffly. 

“You would not,” Jim retorted, affecting a scandalised expression but there was still amusement in his eyes despite it.

Leonard huffed as he dragged on his coat, yet even he knew that time spent with Al would probably undoubtedly be good for Jim. At least, Al would get him laughing quicker than Leonard ever could; it was as the thought crossed his mind on his way out that he felt a strange twist of disloyalty at that. That Jim actually proffered Leonard’s company over Al’s was obvious; Jim often sought out Leonard’s company, either physically or through asking the right questions of the wrong people. Leonard’s name was always on Jim’s lips before Al’s, before Torrio’s, before anyone else’s. Leonard felt a sudden deep sense of pride at that; whatever Jim saw in him could only be something good, something that Jocelyn had thereby missed. Leonard had to admit that Jim in turn was good for him, that he’d brought some kind of purpose to his life, even if he hadn’t quite figured out what that purpose was just yet. 

That Jim would go far was obvious to everyone; undoubtedly he would have his own bootlegging crew in no time, in much the same way as Al was showing promise in the same field. Leonard hoped that wherever Jim ended up plying his trade, that he’d take Leonard with him. He’d often been told, by Al and Torrio both, that he had nothing to worry about; wherever Jim’s stars were destined to rise, then Leonard’s would ascend after him. He wouldn’t be left behind; Jim would make sure of that. Leonard knew that he just wanted to keep a close eye on Jim; he thought of it as his task to keep the kid alive, after all. Jim wouldn’t do it for himself. 

He sighed and so the day went on, melding effortlessly into night. The Four Deuces were overrun by another brawl that night yet no one was seriously hurt enough to require Leonard’s particular attention; Al was dispatched at midnight to lay the pressure on someone who owed Torrio money. 

The New Year rolled ever onwards onto spring and Jim left his sick bed finally behind; he dispensed with the cane as soon as he possibly could do without it, despite Leonard’s worries that he’d be confined to its use for life. If anything could be said for Jim was that once he put his mind to something then he would do everything within his seemingly limitless power to achieve it. Leonard had never seen such determination as Jim displayed on a daily basis, and he often saw the pride in Torrio’s eyes when he looked upon Jim. 

Leonard was grateful for the fact that Torrio treated Jim, Al and Leonard himself like his own sons; to have someone as powerful as Torrio behind him helped to ease his way through Chicago, which was something that he hadn’t expected whilst still in Atlanta. He often was treated with respect, was the first person called upon to treat people on the QT, by gangsters that would face jail time if they even showed one whisker in a hospital. Leonard did his best, and his skills flourished exponentially, aided by restrictive time limits adding to his already keen eye for detail. 

By the time that summer spread its heated wings over the streets of America‘s windiest city, Atlanta had been well and truly relegated to Leonard’s past, future set firmly intertwined with Jim‘s own; Leonard himself would not have had it any other way.


End file.
